past forward
by tomato machine
Summary: A zip-line through the life of one Wallabee Beetles. The bus is pulling away from the curb, and he looks up just in time to give a dazed little wave. Wally/Kuki
1. centerstage

Every man desires to live long; but no man would be old.  
-- ALIVE - The Final Evolution.

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* * *

He's in footsie pajamas - the orange one - snug as a rug in his bed, and star of his very own spaghetti western, when something prods at his side. The last golden nugget eludes his grasp as the kingdom falls to bits and pieces.

He snorts, groans, then cracks open an eyelid, "Yeh?"

It is only when he registers the disheveled hair and watery eyes that realization dawns.

Her hands are trembling.  
No words need to be said; he rolls over to make room.

She smiles gratefully, then wriggles beneath the covers.

"Thanks, Wally."

"Pft, whatever. Get to bed already."

Her hand snakes into his.

He holds firm.

-

It is only when her grip slackens that he allows himself to drift off. He wonders faintly, as sleep descends, whether she minded his clammy hands.

--

i.

When they are eleven they stand vigil at Chubbo II's grave: she digs deep the hatchet and he holds high the umbrella, unable to stop the rain.

(They spend the rest of the night by the couch, watching re-runs of those hamster cartoons and munching on rainbow munchies cereal.)

--

It is a musty summer, of the kind that suffocates slowly with long, lazy afternoons and cling-to-your-skin heat.

Its round the time he ditched the bowl-cut, when he's got the most god-awful and embarrassing braces. Where he's not quite a kid, not quite an adult, but already has one foot out the door, and there ain't much he can do but step out the rest of the way into the threshold and keep on walking.

He's out on the dirt field in the alone, kicking round a football, and sporting a massive cowlick the likes of which were impossible without the entire can of hair gel.

"Wallabee Beetles races down centre field! He kicks, he scores! And the crowd goes wild! "

(Cause, let's face it, some things just don't change with age.)

He pumps his fists into the air, takes off his sweat-stained orange tee and runs along the edge of the field: a showcase of victory. He is halfway back to retrieving the ball before he notices someone clapping, that, and the soft, though enthusiastic "Whooo!"

Picking up the ball, he slants his head in the direction of the noise and comes to face with a figure in a trademark green hoodie. From the rusty, beaten down swing, over the tip of her triple-scoop ice cream cone, she smiles up at him exposing, in shades of pink and green, rubber-banded braces.

He scoffs audibly and turns his head in the opposite direction before she can see the blush staining his cheeks.

By next he looks in her direction, the swing is uninhabited and she is gone.

-

Later, much later, he tries to piece together a picture, but can only pin down an over-sized green hoodie and wide, toothy grin.

He still wonders how she can stand the heat.

_--_

ii.

At twelve he breaks his leg pulling a ridiculous stunt involving guinea pigs, a fire extinguisher and a trolley. She paints on his cast a world of vibrant swirls and frolicking rainbow monkeys.

He fumes. "No rainbow-dorkies!"

(He makes a frantic grab for her markers, but fails and lands –squirming- on his side . She sticks out her tongue at him and signs her name in green ink. Complete with a little heart and everything.)

--

Next kick off's at a bus stop halfway across town while on the way back from a gig. He's a skinhead, but only in hairdo, with an eyebrow pierced and an obscene tattoo somewhere between his lower back and his butt that he doesn't remember getting.

The band's not just an outlet, it's an easy way to make a quick buck.

Right now, he's leaning on the side of a fence, trying to appear coolly offhand. He notices her first, but she's the one to acknowledge his presence.

And this is how it plays out:

She looks up from her half-frame, lime-green specs, meets his eyes, and smiles. Then proceeds to pat the seat next to her.

He had a battle plan all lined up in his head and she had to go and ruin it all by...by...

He plops down.

The silence spans eons. He rubs the back of his head sheepishly then spots the fabric on her lap.

"What's that?"

"Hmm? Just knitting." She pauses, like she's trying to brush past musty cobwebs, unearth something long buried, "Remember that tree house we used to hang out in?"

_Yeh, but not that huge multicolored strip of bacon in the backdrop._

He says as much.

She gives him a look, and is about to lapse back into old habits: bonk him on the side of the head or fume, but she spots her ride over his shoulder.

"Its my bus. I'm sorry, Wally, I have to go."

"Oh," he replies.

He rises up.

Mostly, it's an involuntary action, but truth of the matter is he just can't _sit there_ and watch her board the bus.

_Can't just sit there while she walks out of your life forever._

So he stands - hand half stretched out and expression a kind of stupefied daze - but he's not sure what to do.

_Way to go, Beetles.  
Way to go. _

She laughs, soft and tinkling and ...kinda dorky, really, leans close, and for a moment he thinks that she'll kiss him, but instead, closes the gap with a lung-crushing bear hug.

She leans close to whisper in his ear, 'you haven't changed one bit, wally.'

On impulse his hands snake round her neck, pulling her closer and he can still feel it, can almost taste it: the endless summers, all those mind-numbing hamster cartoons she made him watch…

-

They fall limply at his side the minute she pulls away.

The bus is pulling away from the curb, and he looks up just in time to give a dazed little wave.

----

iii.

When thirteen comes round the bend, the clock strikes midnight.  
And everything goes blank.

* * *

Tried to make it real and failed miserably. Hahaha. It was fun though.  
TBC ...probably. ...I don't know... What do you think?  
Feedback really, really appreciated! :D  
(But its been a long time and i ain't holding my breath...)


	2. a home to return to

_Memory._

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* * *

Its not like there was ever a falling out. No, just that life had a tendency of chugging onward and lugging you along, whether you wanted to follow, or not.

And sometimes, things… they just tend to get in the way. Notions of secret bases and battling adult tyranny take a backseat to rock 'n roll and soccer, to advance calculus and cram school.

(Though they'd be lying if they said the taste of it didn't linger.)

Anyway, long story short, they don't really talk, not anymore.

--

He's staring down a meatball sub, not sure whether to dig in or just keep prodding.

"It's like... like.... saltwater taffy or something..."

"Candy-euphemisms? Man, she's really done a number on you." Hoagie eyes him with a resigned kind of pity, pats his back once, twice, "Don't beat yourself up over it. You know what they say, life's a fickle erm, itch."

"That's a load of hooey, and you know it. Only fickle creature's man.' Abigail takes a long sip of her soda and sighs, "Boy, you gotta get out of your funk and take action if you want results.'

"Rghh! Easy for you to say! Why do girls gotta be so-"

Abigail squints threateningly.

"So…" His voice shrinks, "never mind…."

_I was just gonna say complicated…_

Hoagie nudges him with an elbow, gestures, "Say, are you going to finish that?"

Wallabee Beetles groans and sinks even further down the chair.

--

Kuki Sanban keeps a diary.

Cause she doesn't trust her memories all that much - they blur and gloss as time stretches- but above all, she needs an outlet. The pages are splattered with ink blotches, littered with (stickman) caricatures and filled, front to finish, with words. Scribbles, thoughts, feelings, conquests, defeats. All the crayons in the box, the marker-pens in the tin. All the colors of the rainbow.

Rainbow Monkeys and flower fields, rocket ships to mars and sandy days on the beach, last night's mission and candy canes that were never quite sweet enough.

She's forgotten which of them were real, which were just castles in the sky.

Not that it matters all that much now, childhood is about the memories, and she isn't ready to give them away just yet. Not now. Maybe not ever.

She doesn't want to forget.

When she grows more sensible - older, colder - it turns into a leather bound journal. When she's older she trades in copic markers for a mont blanc. When she's older - her mother makes her - she majors in business and takes up advance mathematics.

There's not much of the girl in her anymore.

There's no time for that, barely enough time for anything at all. She lives life in acceleration, juggling lessons and tuition and violin lessons and extra-curricular activities and-  
she's tired sometimes. Just _tired_.

She stops staring at her 2 homework- the words unfocused, her vision a blur - tilts her head up high to the ceiling and lets out a sigh, long and tired.

--

He's on the verge of dropping out of university. Already, he sees a picture of himself in ten years time: dead-end job, faceless wife and two bratty kids.

_Welcome to suburbia, baby._

Currently, he's flat on his back in bed, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling.

A hand fists the fabric, "This has got to be the stupidest, most cliché-"

"Hey, what'd you have there?"

"N-Nuthin." He stuffs the fabric into the back of his pants before raising a fist, "Get outta my room, Joey!

--

He remembers the in-betweens.

On prom night, he paces her front lawn rehearsing a script prepped by his best mate Hoagie.

The ink on his palm's smudged and smeared from the sweat, and after three minutes of attempted deciphering, he promptly throws in the towel.

Screw this shit. He' wasn't no Casanova, and he knows it. If he's ever gonna go through with this, he was gonna do it his way.

He clears his throat, "Look, I know its kind of late and all, and I feel pretty damn stupid right about now, but-"

And it cuts off there, cause he dives head first into her family's azalea bush the minute he hears a car pull up by the side of the road.

A stretch limo.

_Well, I'll be damned._

The car door opens, and out steps some schmuck: hair slicked back with a fancy-ass corsage in hand. He straightens his tux and rings the doorbell with a conditioned ease.

Wally clenches his fist involuntarily.

Ace.

The asshole.

Then the door opens, and out she steps.

The entire time he outright gapes.

Like a fish drowning on land.

Her hair's done up, and her gown is long and green and elegant. It's simple and sweet and her.

(So painfully, typically _her_.)

A frog's in his throat, such that the word that does manage to slip out is dry and raggedy. It could just as easily have been a _beautiful _as a _breathtaking. _Hell, even a quickly mumbled _damn-she's-hot _would pass. That doesn't really matter, what does is that suddenly her trajectory has changed: she's making a beeline for the bush.

His mind's moving a mile a minute, already fumbling with an excuse to his predicament. Though he knows he'll just blabber like an idiot if his cover's blown.

(A fish, drowning on dry land.)

For a minute he thinks she spotted him, but he does not flinch, clumsily musters the haphazard assortment of espionage and hide-and-seek tips he picked up over the years: quells his breathing and moves not a muscle.

(No one did manage to find him under that box of his.)

She pauses a foot before the Arcaia bush- bushy and nosily bright, it doesn't match her dress at all - bends low, plucks out a stem and twirls it in her hand; all the while humming a secret tune as her date escorts her to the limo.

Wally squint-glares the entire time.

--

She tucks it behind her ear.

He crushes the bouquet under his heel and wonders why he even bothered coming.

His tie is askew, his hair is a mess, and there are grass stains all the way up to his lapel.

And thus, he storms off - walks the rest of the way home cussing and muttering.

"She's too good for his bloody corsage."

* * *

Woah, thanks for the response, peeps! :D  
Chapter titles/starting sentence yanked from the awesome manga: Alive- The Final Evolution.  
Sorry for slow pace, will get faster next chapter. Err, gotta catch a plane, so thanks and bye.


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